Pickpocket
by I'm Sorry I'm Me
Summary: I had never been more alone. I hopefully never will be. Christine was left out on the street to find her dad. His name is Fagin. She stays with him and his gang, but falls for a certain brown-haired, top-hatted boy at just the wrong time. DISCLAIMER: It's not mine, guys.


**PICKPOCKET**

I had never been more alone. I hopefully never will be. My mom left me on the street, she couldn't keep me. I don't know how she kept me for the thirteen years before this, but she did. And now, she left me.

I saw it coming, but that didn't soften the pain. It never has. Never does. Never will. I suppose that I should have learned my lesson by now, but I haven't. I'm quite stubborn that way.

So here I stand, outside a ramshackle hut, afraid to knock. My hair hangs tangled and greasy down my back, and my face is grimy, as well as my hands. My mom said he was my father. The owner of this hut, whose eyes I supposedly have.

Finally, I muster up the courage to knock. I knock. Once, twice, three times. Then the door slowly creaks open. It's an old place. My mom said Fagin used to live somewhere else, but he moved recently to this place because of a lad named Oliver.

I see a man with red hair and brown eyes. My eyes. He jumped with a start, and then, sounding almost scared, said, "Christine." And I was welcomed in. "What brings you here?" He asks.

"My mum left me on the street for dead, claiming you knew how to take care of me, and that it was, and I quote, 'Your turn,', whatever that means."

"Ah," He said, "Of course. Well, welcome, it's not much, there are no girls, but I'll take you 'round."

He showed me a few rooms with blankets strewn haphazardly across the floor. It appeared that his boys slept here.

"What is this, some sort of orphanage?"

"Some sort." He said, "Since you are my… daughter, I'll explain it right-out. You know what your mom was, correct?"

"Yeah." I say, "A prostitute, and not a good one. Not pretty enough, I s'pose."

"One night, she and I did it, and accidentally made you. Here you are, and now she can't take care of you. She always said when that happened, you would be mine. So here you are." I don't respond, because I want him to continue, "I run a place for… fine, right-out, I forgot. Pickpockets. You know what pickpockets are?"

"'Course," I say, "I just stole your wallet."

And I hold it up, nothing worth keeping in it anyways, so I return it to him.

"You're good." He says. "That's good. Now, I collect the money from the pickpockets, and I use it to buy food and rent this place. Got it?" He asks, and I nod. "Now, before now, this has been an all- boys place, but, for you, I'll make an exception. You can get this corner all to yourself!"

He said that as if it was the best thing that could possibly happen to me. Which, in this situation, it could likely be. "Wow," I say, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He says, with a smirk. "Now, I'm gonna introduce you to my young friend Dodger. He's… around your age, I'd guess, and he's the best of the best."

"Okay." I say. "Sounds good."

"I'll call him in, then. DODGER!" He yells out the door. A minute later, a boy with a dirty top hat on, and brown hair, runs up. He has on this goofy smile, and has lean muscles. He also has these brown eyes, and this smile that is goofy, but cute.

"Yeah, Fagin? What's with the… Is that a girl?" He… states? Then he starts looking me up and down.

"Dodger," I say. "Dodger! My face is up here!"

"Oh!" He says, and turns red. That ought to show him.

"Dodger, she is our newest recruit… and my daughter."

"You have a…?" He starts, then shakes his head, and regains whatever cool he thought he had. "Okay, then, shall I show her how it goes around here?"

"Yes," Fagin says, "You know the drill. Go! I want her making money right away!"

"Come on!" He says, and dashes away, with me in a not-so-close second. Then he stops. "Okay, I need to show you the ropes. But first, let me introduce myself. I'm the Artful Dodger. My real name's Jack, but I go by Dodger."

"Okay," I say, my names Christine, but call me Chris."

"Okay, then, Chris." He says. "You know what we do?"

"'Course." I say.

"Good. Now, I have this fake wallet, and I want you to take it."

I look him up and down. I don't see the wallet anywhere, unless that little thing in his pocket is a wallet, which I doubt. Then I realize. It must be in his hat.

"I have to surprise you." I say.

"Oh," He says, "You know what you're doing. So, sometime within this lesson, show me when you have it. 'Kay?"

"Got it."

He starts going on about how 'pickpocketing is an art' and I need to learn to respect that, and watch him pickpocket, and he was called Dodger because he can dodge traps like nobody's business. He is waving his hands around, and then says, "You need to learn how to spot a prime target. Like, that person over there."

"Where?" I ask. This will be my trick.

"Over there," He says, not pointing.

"Point," I say.

So he points at a man with his pockets stuffed. As he's looking at the man, pointing, I slide his hat off enough for me to see the wallet under it, and I pull out the wallet.

"Oh, I see." I say.

"You can tell because his pockets are stuffed, and he has this little gold watch hanging off his jacket. Got it?"

"Yes, I got the wallet."

"Real—no, you don't. It's still in my pocket."

"It was in your hat." I say, and I hold it up.

"That would be my _real _wallet."

"Oh," I say. "That fake one doesn't even look like a wallet, though."

"I did what I could with what I had, okay?! Jesus."

Then I laugh. I'm not sure why, but I just felt like laughing. So I did. Then he started laughing, too. And boy, what a laugh. It was somehow childish and manly at the same time. I look into his smiling eyes, and I feel something I've never felt before. Is it… longing?

I don't know, but I do know I shouldn't be bothering with this type of thing while my more important worries are things like staying alive.

After a long day of showing Dodger I knew what I was doing, and collecting 3 handkerchiefs, and 4 wallets in the process, Dodger and I headed back to Fagin's. It was a hard life, but all I needed was to survive. If I could do that, I had won the game.

"Nice job, Christine, especially for a first day, and you too, of course, Dodger, just like every day." Fagin praised us and collected our wallets. "After I finish this, Chris, you need to come talk to me."

I'm not sure whether to be worried or not, but by the look on Dodger's face, I should be. I definitely should be.

"Okay, Chris, let's go outside."

"Okay."

"As you know, you are the only girl here."

"Yes,"

"But girls aren't thieves when they grow up, not like boys."

"What—oh. Oh! Fagin, no. I don't want to be some sort of prostitute!"

"Not a prostitute—necessarily, just a dancer. At the pub, near this place… er, I believe it's called… Four Drunk Girls? I don't remember. But a dancer."

"Father, I don't…"

"Call me Fagin."

"Okay," I say, "I guess I could be a dancer, but isn't there any other option?"

"Not really, unless you can marry up, which I doubt."

"Oh. Okay. Fine. I will. But I'm not gonna enjoy it."

"Never said you had to!" My dad said, "You'll meet Bett, the person who will teach you what to do, tomorrow night."

"Okay…" I say. I don't want to do this. At all. I want to live, not survive, but live, because there's a difference. Surviving is being alive. Living is having fun doing that. But I was born into surviving. So survive I must. I walk inside, and sit on the two blankets that are my bed.

"What's wrong?" Dodger asks, as he sits down beside me. I mean, he's not helping the situation. At all. He's very distracting.

"I'm going to have to be a dancer. At some pub. But I don't want to survive. I want to live."

"That's the thing. We were born into not knowing the difference." Dodger says. And I know he's right.

**Hello, I'mSorryI'mMe here. How are you? This is my first fanfic, so I hope it's good. Please review, or PM me, I don't care. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it.**


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